


The River

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Genderfluid Aziraphale, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, historical times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-01 19:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Four periods in history, four types of relationship, four kinds of love.





	1. Storge

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt that asked to explore the four types of love, as described by the Greeks. It turns out this is a more complicated subject than it first seems, so I'm basing my understanding and use of the types on [ this Wikipedia article](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love).

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”-Heraclitus

"Storge: Rarely used in ancient works, and then almost exclusively as a descriptor of relationships within the family."-[Greek words for love](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love)

Northern Mesopotamia, 206 B.C.

The settlement, if it can be called that, is really a loose collection of huts in reasonable walking proximity to one another, far away from everything else. It's the kind of place where people can be born, live and die without ever hearing a new idea or meeting a new person. The kind of place where outsiders, when they do come, are spotted miles away, treated with disdain, if not outright hostility, and talked about for years afterwards. The kind of place anyone with an ounce of sense would take great pains to avoid. It also has a small bakery. Aziraphale is very sensible, he likes to think, but it's been years since he's had any bread. 

“I really do appreciate this.” He beams at the baker, who pulls a fresh, flat loaf from the oven. It's a little burnt on the bottom, but Aziraphale doesn't care. He takes the bread and passes over a handful of coins. From the way the baker studies them, turning them over, feeling them with his fingertips and holding them up to the bright light of the sun, Aziraphale suspects he agreed to a cash payment for the novelty value, rather than because money is of any use to him.

“You're going west?” The man says, as Aziraphale turns to leave. It's the first complete sentence to pass his lips since he saw Aziraphale standing in his doorway. His Sumerian is coarse, and, without the benefit of a little divine assistance, Aziraphale doubts he would be able to understand him. 

“Yes, west,” Aziraphale says, because, while he has no definitive plan, it seems wisest to agree. The bread is warm in his hands, almost too warm. He can't wait to bite into it. 

“Stay away from the hills.” 

“The hills?”

“A witch.” 

Aziraphale is doubtful, but intrigued. “There's a witch in the hills?”

The man nods. He glances around the empty room, then leans closer. “She has hair like fire, eyes like a snake's. She curses any man who comes near her. Stay away, if you want my advice."

“Thank you.” Aziraphale should follow it. Steer clear of the hills. Avoid contact with the “witch.” But it has been hundreds of years since he's seen Crawly. They're enemies, of course, but it's also just the two of them, here among the humans. “Could you tell me where exactly these hills are located? So that I might best avoid them?” 

Aziraphale eats the bread too quickly. It lies heavily on his stomach, which cramps painfully as he struggles up yet another steep, rocky hill. He could, he supposes, use a miracle to clear it up, but he really isn't meant to abuse his power so frivolously. It's important that he follow the rules, show he can do things by the book. Prove his value, especially since the incident with the flaming sword is still fresh in some memories Upstairs. Besides, he tells himself, isn't it a godly thing to suffer without complaint? Even if that suffering is your own fault? 

He sits on a flat-topped boulder, pondering this theological question, when he sees her. 

She looks, by and large, the same. Her face and long red hair are almost unchanged, but there's a swell of breasts beneath her robe, and more than that, it _seems_ like she's woman, the way Aziraphale assumes it seems to others like he is a man. She has a yoke over her shoulders, a wooden bucket hanging from each side. Aziraphale stands. He would love to surprise Crawly the way she surprised him the day of the Flood, but as she approaches, her face is impassive, as if she expected him. 

“Angel.” 

“Demon.” 

“Long time no see.”

Aziraphale's not sure how to respond to that. “Yes,” he says, at last. “I hear you've been up to no good, as usual. Making innocent humans think there's a witch in these hills.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Yeah. Well. They started it.” 

Aziraphale scoffs. It's just like a demon to deflect responsibility for her heinous acts. Isn't it? “How can that possibly be?”

Crawly sets down the yoke. The buckets, Aziraphale notices, are full of milk. Slowly, Crawly blinks at him, drawing her eyelids deliberately over her yellow snake eyes. “Let's just say this isn't a look that goes over well with the humans.” 

“There must be some way you can conceal it.” 

“If you think of one, let me know. Because tying a rag over my face and pretending I'm blind isn't a step up, career wise, believe me. And just living life as a snake gets really old, really fast.” 

“So, you're hiding?”

“It's that or be discoporated by a mob. Which has already happened twice. Not again, thanks.” 

Aziraphale feels a twinge of sympathy, along with something else. It's his job to thwart the wily serpent. It's not up to the humans to kill her. Ethereal and occult beings have a common history, a shared knowledge the humans could never hope to understand and which, in fact, is none of their business. They have no right to interfere in matters that don't concern them. 

Crawly picks up the yoke. “I guess you should be on your way, then.” Aziraphale groans aloud at the thought of continuing to walk. Crawly raises an eyebrow. “Or you could come for a drink, if you want.” 

“That sounds...” It sounds terrible, of course. Aziraphale has no desire to spend any more time with the demon than strictly necessary. “Barely tolerable, I suppose.” 

“You flatter me,” Crawly replies, but she leads the way. 

Crawly's house is a one room mud brick hut, similar to the ones used by the humans. It's sparsely furnished, containing a single chair and a table, both roughly hewn from wood, and an unexpectedly wide mattress in a corner. Beside the mattress is an open-topped, rectangular box Aziraphale can't immediately identify. Crawly takes off her yoke outside and brings the buckets of milk into the house, setting them on the floor. 

“It's real wine,” she tells him, as she takes a bottle from a shelf built into one wall. “The miracled stuff tastes like shit. You don't want to know how I got it, so don't ask.” She fills a goblet and hands it to Aziraphale, then takes a drink from the bottle herself. 

Aziraphale sips the wine. It's a little sour, but not so much that he wants to stop drinking it. He takes another, larger, mouthful, just as the rectangular box begins to make noise. 

It's a snuffling sound at first, but within seconds it changes to a mewling, then a high-pitched wail. Crawly closes her eyes for a moment, then sets down the wine bottle. “Awake again, you little bastard?” She says, but there's a softness to her tone. She bends over the box, and picks up a human baby, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. 

Bouncing the noisy baby in her arms, Crawly scoops milk from one of the buckets into a bladder-like contraption with a nipple on one end. Aziraphale watches, mouth agape, as Crawly sits on the chair, arranges the baby in her arms, and sticks the nipple into its mouth. It sucks happily, its legs kicking against Crawly. 

Aziraphale can't believe it. “Is that...is that yours?” 

God forbade the creation of more Nephilim. Aziraphale was informed of that in no uncertain terms. “Not,” Gabriel added, laughing like it was the height of hilarity, “that we have to worry about that with _you_, right, buddy?” The fruit of a union between a human and a demon would surely be even more unnatural, more horrific. Aziraphale can't begin to imagine it. 

“Oh, yeah,” Crawly replies. “I fucked a human man. He was great. Really massive dick. I must have come, oh, a dozen times at least. Then he stoned me to death for being a fucking witch. Of course he's not mine.” 

That's a relief, until Aziraphale realizes the implication. “You stole an infant?” 

“I wish.” Crawly sighs. Her free hand pats the baby in a way Aziraphale would describe as affectionately, if she wasn't a demon. “He was abandoned. I found him.”

“Where?”

“A couple of hills over.” 

“How do you know he was abandoned? Maybe the parents were just off...gathering food.”

“They're humans, angel, not fucking birds.”

“But how--”

Crawly pulls the nipple from the baby's mouth. He whines a little in protest, then quiets. He blinks big brown eyes as Crawly removes his blanket, and Aziraphale sees it. 

The baby is missing an arm. He is a perfect little human, made by God, with nothing at all below his tiny left shoulder. “It's what they do.” Crawly rewraps the baby. She returns the nipple to his mouth, and he sucks gratefully. “The humans. To anyone who's different.” 

Aziraphale's heart lurches. “You're going to raise him?”

Crawly shrugs. “Someone has to. I'll teach him to hate everyone, don't worry,” she adds, quickly. “He'll end up a terrible villain. Cause all kinds of death and destruction. The bosses will like that. A homegrown human demon. Might even win me an award or two. So if you're planning on telling your lot...”

“I'm not. I won't.” Aziraphale hesitates. “What's his name?” 

“He doesn't have one.” 

“He needs a name.” It should be a family name, from Crawly's family, but Dagon and Beelzebub and all that are just too grim for a sweet little baby like this. “Seth,” Aziraphale determines, after a moment. 

“Seth?” 

“The third son of Adam and Eve. Remember? His sons taught the humans about the stars.” 

“Right. Yeah.” Crawly smiles. “Those are more your people than mine.” 

“You knew Eve as well as I did. Better.” 

“Seth.” Crawly looks at the baby. “What do you think about that, then?” The baby spits out the nipple and belches. Aziraphale takes that as a good sign. 

Aziraphale visits Crawly and Seth a few more times over the next couple of decades. Each time, he's amazed at how quickly humans change. One visit, Seth is toddling about the hut, cooing and grabbing at Crawly's hair with his chubby fist. The next, he's old enough to read and write and ask who Aziraphale is. Aziraphale opens his mouth to explain, in couched terms, that he is Seth's mother's hereditary enemy. Before he can get there, Crawly says, “He's your uncle.” For some reason, Aziraphale doesn't feel like arguing with that. 

The next time Aziraphale is in the area, Seth is a young man. He's outside the hut, chopping firewood with one arm as easily as any other man would with two. He's grown, Aziraphale notices, into a very fine and very handsome fellow. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he says, as Aziraphale approaches. 

“I didn't think you'd remember me, dear boy.” 

“Of course I do.” Seth grins widely. “I'm glad to catch you. Mother's told me I have to leave in a few days. Go seek my fortune in the world.” 

“How exciting for you.” So Crawly's task is finished. Aziraphale reaches out to the boy spiritually, but no overwhelming sense of evil comes back at him. Seth just feels human.

Seth swings the axe once more, planting it in the chopping block. He wipes his hand on the back of his robe. “It's time for me to go,” he says. “But I will miss her.” 

“It's natural. She's your mother.” For all her many, many faults. 

“Will you answer a question for me?”

“If it's within my power.”

“Are you really my uncle?” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale hesitates, searching for the perfect answer. It doesn't come to him. “Your...your mother and I disagree on a great many things. On everything. But we have the, ah, the same origins. So while we aren't siblings in the hu—in the usual sense, we are...”

“Family?” 

“Yes.” At the root of it, Aziraphale supposes they are. 

“Will you keep an eye on her when I'm gone? I'm going to be fine, despite...” Seth indicates his missing arm, his empty sleeve cut off and sewn shut at the shoulder. Aziraphale is inclined to agree with him. “I don't need anything from anyone. But I worry about her.” 

“I'll do what I can,” Aziraphale promises. But it's one thing after another, and before Aziraphale knows it, decades have flown by. He goes to Golgotha on some really dreadful business, and runs into Crawly—Crowley—for the first time in more than a century.

He doesn't mention Seth. There's no point. He's a human. He'll be dead by now.


	2. Philia

"Philia means 'affectionate regard, friendship'"-[Greek words for love](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love)

Versailles and Paris, France, 1681 A.D.  
Near Harrogate, England, 1703 A.D.

The court of Louis XIV of France is the most over-indulgent Aziraphale has seen in years. Centuries, even. It puts him in mind of the most excessive of the Roman emperors. It's Nero. It's Tiberius. It's Caligula, minus the horse, so far. Aziraphale feels like he's sinning just by being there, but, on the other hand, the food is awfully good.

He tries to keep back, out of the way of the debauchery. He should be intervening, he knows that. Influencing people to be good, to practice self-control, to spend more time on their knees before God and less time on their knees before their close friends. But Aziraphale's worries are bigger than just infidelity and intemperance. King Louis wants to be more powerful than the Pope. That in itself is not a concern—the papacy is a human invention, not a divine one, and the role has been held by some truly odious men over the years—but Aziraphale remembers what happened in England when the King started thinking along those lines. The religious strife in that country still hasn't abated. Aziraphale doesn't know when it ever will. 

He sighs into his wineglass, watching as the King's brother parades past in a dress and makeup. _Oh, how terribly risqué_, Aziraphale thinks, with heavy sarcasm and heavier disdain.

“What's up, angel? The pear tart not to your liking?” 

Aziraphale turns, and he's there. Crowley. A grin of pure joy threatens to burst onto Aziraphale's face, but he subdues it. “What are you doing here?” 

Crowley shrugs. He's well-dressed, of course, in rich red Rhinegrave breeches with gold filigree, black hose, and leather shoes with a heel that makes him even taller than usual. Even his dark glasses have a fashionable air to them. He's not wearing a wig, as many do, but his hair is long and curled. As he stands there, Aziraphale can see him drawing the attention of several women and men in the ballroom. “Heard something about excessive decadence and debauchery, thought it sounded like my scene. Yours too, it seems like.” 

“Not really. Although the tart is good.” 

Crowley laughs, drawing even more attention. “You look amazing, by the way.” He waves a hand up and down. “White really is your colour.” 

“Oh.” A warm feeling passes, briefly, through Aziraphale. “Well, thank you very much. You, as well. I mean, you look good, too.”

“I've got to admit, though, I still kind of miss the toga. Easier to let it all hang out.” 

True. _And easier to conceal bits you might not want on full display_, Aziraphale thinks, pressing a hand to his stomach. “Did you have something to do with all this, then?” 

“Wish I could say I did but, as usual, they didn't need any help.” Crowley takes a step closer. Aziraphale should, logically, take a step back, evade the enemy, but he stays where he is. “Listen, I'm here to cause trouble, you're here to stop it. Want to call it quits and just leave?” 

“But...”

“I snagged a bottle.” Crowley holds up his other hand. It does, indeed, contain an unopened bottle of champagne. “Grab yourself a takeaway plate at the buffet, and let's take it away.”

Aziraphale shouldn't. They're enemies, after all. But, loath as he is to admit it, he likes Crowley far more than he likes any human in the room. More than any human he's ever known. “For a little while,” he says. 

“Okay,” Crowley agrees easily. “As long as you want.”

Aziraphale expects to go outside, or even to some other, more isolated, part of the palace. Versailles has no lack of discreet corners and quiet corridors. Instead, Crowley snaps his fingers, and they arrive in somebody's bedchamber. 

The occupant is elsewhere, thankfully. Before Aziraphale can ask to whom the room belongs, or why they are here, Crowley points to the tapestries. 

It's a series. Five large panels are around the room and two are above the lavish bed, acting as a canopy. The theme, it seems, is the hunting of a unicorn. Aziraphale can surely not approve of that, although it's possible it's an allegory. That's one thing Upstairs can't understand: how the humans can say, or depict, one thing, and mean something quite different. Heaven takes everything at face value.

Whatever the true story, the tapestries' workmanship is so fine, the details so mind-blowing, that he is inclined to forgive the subject matter. Each tapestry is woven in brilliant colour, and packed with so many rich details, one could spend hours staring at a single panel and not appreciate all hidden within it. Human figures, animals, scenery, dainty millefleurs. Every panel is a work of art, a skilful painting in thread. As much a masterpiece as anything painted by Caravaggio, anything sculpted by Michelangelo. 

“They're beautiful,” Aziraphale says. It's true. His eyes land on the final tapestry in the series, depicting the unicorn trapped within a tiny paddock.He furrows his brow. It should be unpleasant to see, but the unicorn seems happy.

Aziraphale can't understand it.

“Yeah, whatever.” Crowley shrugs. “They're okay. I guess. Humans doing human stuff, right? Just thought you might like them.” He sits on the bed easily, as if he's been there before, and swigs from the bottle of champagne. 

“I do. They're quite fantastic.” Aziraphale hesitates. “Do I want to know how you first came to see them?” 

“Probably not.”

“I shan't ask, then.” He sits beside Crowley and takes a bite of the cake he brought with him, careful to keep the crumbs over the plate. “You always were partial to unicorns.” 

“If that idiot Shem hadn't been so slow off the mark, they'd still be here.” Crowley takes a long drink of champagne, then hands to bottle to Aziraphale. “Do you ever miss them?”

“Unicorns?” Occasionally. When he thinks about them which, admittedly, is not often. Aziraphale passes the bottle back.

Crowley drinks. “No, humans.” 

“Individual ones?” 

“Yeah.”

“Not really.” He remembers a few, from time to time, but he can't miss them. If he started doing that, he'd never stop. He holds out his hand for the bottle. “Why? Do you?”

“What? Me? No, of course not. I'm a demon, remember?”

“Of course.” 

“Anyway, I've got you.”

“Me?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale. “Who needs the humans? You're my friend.” 

“I am?” 

“Unless you want to keep up with that enemy thing. I know it's important to you to pretend.” 

“No.” Maybe it's the champagne talking, but it's the truth. Aziraphale is happy when he meets up with Crowley. They've been helping one another for decades. Aziraphale still sees posters advertising productions of 'Hamlet' all over England. They aren't enemies. But they can't be friends, either. Heaven would never stand for that. “We're...acquaintances.”

“Great.” Crowley smiles and takes the bottle from Aziraphale. It's nearly empty already. “To acquaintanceship,” he says, holding it high. He drinks, then hands the dregs of the champagne to Aziraphale. 

Twenty-two years later, Aziraphale relies on this acquaintanceship for urgent help. 

“I got here as quickly as I could,” Crowley says, coming into Aziraphale's moorside cottage. Outside, it's pouring down. Crowley doesn't have an umbrella, but, with a quick shake, he's miraculously dry. “Because this is the funniest thing that's ever happened to me.” 

Aziraphale frowns, peevishly. “It's not funny.”

“Oh, it is, angel.” He glances at her. “Nice outfit, though. I mean that. The dress suits you. So do the, you know.” He points at his own grey wig. “Curls.” 

“I didn't ask you here to flatter me.” Although Aziraphale and her maid have been spending an inordinate amount of time—with no miracle cheating—getting her blonde ringlets just right. 

“No. You asked me here to, what was it? Marry you before someone else does?” 

“If you're going to make a mockery of me, I'll manage this on my own.” 

“That's fine, then.” Crowley turns towards the door. “I'll be off. Congratulations on your upcoming marriage. I'd be happy to attend the wedding, but churches and I don't get along.” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale doesn't know whether she wants to cry or to scream. Or both. It's definitely both. 

“All right, all right. You got anything to drink?”

Aziraphale has copious amounts to drink. It's what got her into this situation in the first place. 

“So,” Crowley says, once they're in front of the fire with a nice brandy in hand, “you're engaged to marry the Duke of...”

“The Earl of Wendover,” Aziraphale corrects him.

“And what's wrong with that?”

“I can't marry a human!”

Crowley shrugs. “Of course you can. You'll only have to put up with him for what, two or three decades? Maybe four at the outside? Could be a bit of a laugh. Then you get on with the rest of your life.” 

“He'll expect children.” 

“He told you that?” 

Not in so many words. The Earl of Wendover—John—is in fact not a great lover of children, and he has mentioned, off-handedly, that he would be happy to pass his title on to his nephew if necessary. “He'll expect sex.” 

“Then give it to him. Do you need pointers? You're a woman right now, I see, so most of these guys won't expect you to do that much. Although the odd one does have a bit of an imagination...”

Aziraphale explodes. Not literally, but close enough. Angelic rage bubbles first in the depths of her corporation, then in the depths of herself. Teacups rattle on shelves. Furniture jumps jerkily on the vibrating floor. Her eyes turn red, then brilliant white, her wings unfurl, and in a voice that would make the most dedicated sinner rethink his or her life choices, she bellows, “Crowley, shut up.”

In an instant, it's over, and she's just Azira Fell, genteel lady of a certain age with blonde ringlets, a brown tartan dress stretched over approximately two dozen petticoats, and an engagement she has to get out of. 

Crowley fixes his glasses, knocked askew, and straightens himself in his chair. “All right, then.” He clears his throat. “What can I do to help, angel?” 

John is a very nice man. Therein lies the trouble. If he wasn't, Aziraphale would have no qualms about telling him the engagement is off and moving on, but she thinks of them as friends. She would like to remain that way. The fact John possesses the largest private library in Yorkshire, and possibly in the entire north of England, plays just a small role in this desire. 

“So why don't you just miracle away his memory of the engagement?” Crowley asks. 

“He's a friend.” It seems wrong to alter his mind. Not to mention, it wouldn't stop dear John from posing the question again. This plan is much better. It will put an end the subject once and for all, while saving his feelings. It's brilliant, if Aziraphale does say so herself.

“But it's okay to lie to him?”

“I won't be doing the lying,” Aziraphale reminds him. “You will.”

The next day, the three of them—John, Aziraphale and Crowley—sit in the drawing room of John's manor house, in front of a very lovely plate of ratafia cakes, “because I know how you like sweets, Azira.” That alone is nearly enough to make Aziraphale change her mind and marry him after all, but no. She holds fast. 

“I'm afraid," she says, "I haven't been entirely honest with you, John. May I introduce my...”

“Husband,” Crowley puts in, as per their arranged script. “Captain Fell. I've been lost at sea for ten years. Shipwrecked on a deserted island with only monkeys and coconuts for company. It was only thoughts of my darling Azira that kept me from giving in and dying right there on the beach. Thoughts of her lovely hair, her lovely eyes, her lovely...”

“All right, dear, I believe we get the picture.” Aziraphale looks at her erstwhile fiancé, an expression of what she hopes looks like sad resignation on her face. “So you see John, I'm very sorry. Were things different,” if she were, for example, human, “I would be happy to marry you, but alas, it is not to be.” 

“No. No, it seems not. How disappointing.” John sighs, then smiles. He has a beautiful smile. Aziraphale really does hope he finds a human to marry. “Still, it's very fortuitous you were rescued, Captain. We must offer thanks to God for that.” Aziraphale nods. Crowley does not. “I imagine you'll now be retiring here, with your lovely wife?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I'm heading out again right away. Sailor's life for me. First love is the sea and all that. Take care of my wife for me while I'm gone, would you? Read...” This part is less rehearsed. “Books with her, or whatever it is you do.” He glances at Aziraphale. “But no, ah no sex, all right? None. I must put my foot down there.” Aziraphale cringes inwardly. John starts so violently, he nearly loses his wig. 

“Captain Fell! My good sir, I can assure you I have no intention whatsoever...” 

“Great. Good to know. Take care, then.” Just like that, Crowley is up and gone. A loud clattering, and a surprised exclamation from one of John's servants, seems to indicate he has collided with either the hat rack or the umbrella stand on his way out. Aziraphale doesn't go to look. 

For a moment, the room is silent. At last, John clears his throat. “Your husband is...”

“Eccentric,” Aziraphale agrees. “All great sea captains are.” But they can also, she's discovered, be rather good acquaintances. 

Aziraphale doesn't expect to see him again, but Crowley is waiting at Aziraphale's cottage when she returns home, lounging in her parlour. “How was that, then?” He asks. “Good enough to get him off your back and keep his books in your hands?”

“It was fine. Thank you.” She hesitates. John does have great many books, and has helped her to learn a great many things. Including some things about Crowley. “François de la Rochefoucould,” she says. 

“Gesundheit.” 

“Crowley.” 

“What?” 

_Fine_, Aziraphale thinks. _We'll spell it out._ “His family owns the unicorn tapestries you showed me.” He also died a year before Crowley took her to see them. It hadn't taken much sleuthing to learn that.

For a moment, Crowley looks like he's about to deny it, but not even he, apparently, is that asinine. “Yeah. He did.” Crowley sighs, a heavy sound. “Word of advice: enjoy your friend's books, but don't get too close to him, okay? It hurts to be friends with a human.” 

Aziraphale bites her lip. She shouldn't say it. She shouldn't even think it, but Crowley rendered her a service. Surely she owes him one in return? “As you once said, then,” she says, before she can change her mind. “Just as well that you and I are friends with each other.” The words should burn in her mouth. They don't.

Crowley smiles. “Right. Mates forever, that's you and me. There's no getting rid of me, _Azira_.” Aziraphale rolls her eyes, but the idea doesn't feel as repulsive as it once would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More information on the unicorn tapestries can be found [here](https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-mystery-mets-unicorn-tapestries-remains-unsolved).


	3. Eros

"Eros means 'love, mostly of the sexual passion'"-[Greek words for love](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love%22)

Las Vegas, United States of America, 1956 A.D.

Aziraphale goes to Las Vegas because of Gabriel.

More accurately, he leaves London because of Gabriel, and his insistence that, “for once in what, like three hundred years or something?” Aziraphale investigate what's happening somewhere other than the Home Counties. Aziraphale chooses Las Vegas because that's where Crowley is. 

It's disappointing, to say the least. Not the aeroplane flight. It's quite amusing, Aziraphale finds, to glide miles over the Earth while being served a scrummy meal and copious amounts of mediocre wine by lovely young ladies in dear little hats. Once Aziraphale lands, however, the trouble begins. 

He is not, he decided long ago, a hot weather angel. In the olden days, Aziraphale traipsed about Egypt and Greece and Israel and Mesopotamia because he had to. Given the choice, a nice, cool climate, with just a little bit of weak sunlight and near-daily drizzle, is his heart's true home. 

Here, the scorching heat hits him like a punch the moment he steps off the aeroplane's little staircase. His corporation springs into action, sweating waterfalls before he even stops to collect his unnecessary, but very stylish, suitcase. By the time Aziraphale gets into the taxi, which smells like a dead animal and contains torn leather seats which burn his thighs through his trousers, he is cross verging on actively enraged. “The Frontier, please,” he snaps at the driver, and that certainly describes this place very accurately indeed.

By the time he gets to the hotel, Aziraphale is ready to turn around and go right back to England. Gabriel can have his damned report, and it's going to be short and uncomplimentary. Las Vegas is a place of big cars and gaudy buildings that looks as though it could be reclaimed by the desert at any time, and the world would not be the poorer for it. 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale sighs at the taxi driver, and gives him a generous tip. It's not the poor man's fault, after all, and he presumably has to live here.

The Frontier hotel—a large, flat building with a triangular tower in front that seems to serve no purpose other than to exist—is no better inside than it is out. The lobby is crowded with tourists in the most appalling "leisurewear", and the queue to check in is a dozen people deep. This whole city is Crowley's work, he's sure of it. No wonder he invited him here to look at it. _Bested by the demon, after all these years_, Aziraphale thinks. He turns away from the lobby, instead glancing despairingly out at the casino floor, and drops his empty suitcase. 

Crowley is standing at a roulette wheel, surrounded by men of the type Aziraphale knows very well. Various groups of them drop in on him periodically in Soho, making vague threats about what a nice shop he has and what a shame it would be if anything happened to it. Aziraphale always agrees heartily, offers the men a cup of tea, and is strangely never treated to a return visit. Ever.

Crowley, however, seems less familiar to him. A few years have passed since they last met. Their most recent encounter was a strange one. When Crowley saved the rare books from the bombed church, when he delivered those books to Aziraphale's arms like the precious cargo they are, the act elicited a strange response in Aziraphale's corporation. It assaulted him with a rather fizzy sensation, like the first sip from a newly opened bottle of champagne. Aziraphale has read enough books that referenced “butterflies in the stomach.” For the first time, he could relate, a little, although the sensation wasn't confined to his stomach. The fizziness sparkled throughout his body, setting every nerve a-tizzy.

They parted quickly that night, once Crowley dropped him off at the shop. They had to. Being in Crowley's presence was causing Aziraphale a sort of painful joy he didn't know what to do with. He and Crowley couldn't be together at that moment. Aziraphale knew instinctively he was in danger of saying or doing something regrettable, although he couldn't articulate what that might be.

The feeling returns now, with a vengeance. 

In the nearly six thousand years they've known one another, Aziraphale has seen Crowley in all manner of clothing: robes, togas, dresses, doublets and hose. Armour and three-piece suits and, on one accidental occasion, a whalebone corset and underskirt. He's never looked like this. 

Crowley's wearing a tuxedo, black tie with knife-creased trousers sharp enough make Aziraphale's tailor jealous. His hair is slicked back, his glasses tortoiseshell. But the astonishing thing, the really remarkable part of this outfit, is that Crowley's dinner jacket is white. 

Aziraphale can't ever remember seeing him in white. He looks like Aziraphale pictures the fictional spy James Bond might—Aziraphale does, on occasion, put down his Voltaire and his Wilde to read more modern fare—and the fizziness flows through him once more. For no reason he can discern, Aziraphale's mouth grows dry, at the same time his palms sweat. He watches as a blonde woman in a gold dress tight enough to evoke the thought of beautiful sausages goes up to Crowley and links her arm with his. Without thinking twice, without even thinking once, Aziraphale leaves the suitcase where it lies and steps out onto the noisy casino floor.

“Crowley!” He calls, as soon as he's near enough to be heard above the din. Crowley's head snaps up. With a speed that gratifies Aziraphale far more than it should, he steps away from the blonde woman. 

“Angel...o.” Crowley's gaze shifts to the man nearest him. He's short and stocky and has a cigar hanging from his lips like a Freudian dream. “Great to see you. Guys, this is my friend Angelo.”

“You don't look like no eye-tie to me,” one of the other men puts in.

Aziraphale replies, frostily, “I believe the word you're looking for, sir, is 'Italian'. And I assure you, this,” he indicates his own blond hair and admittedly voluptuous body, “was quite _de rigueur_ in Venice in...”

“He's English,” Crowley interrupts. “His parents just really like spaghetti. If you'll excuse us a moment?” Crowley's hand closes on Aziraphale's elbow. He's done it countless times before, but this time, the touch burns like hellfire. It's marvellous. 

Crowley steers him away from the table, to where a handful of people are relentlessly pulling handles on machines, watching wheels spin inside them. It seems like a dull activity, but it must be very entertaining to the humans, because they're doing it without pause, and seem completely unaware of anything going on around them. 

“What are you doing here?”

“_Angelo_, dear? While I certainly appreciate a multilingual nickname, I...”

“Angel!”

“You invited me.”

“I did?” 

“You sent me a postcard.” Aziraphale doesn't have it with him. “You 'wished I was here.' That was what was printed on the front of it, in any case. There was a picture of a palm tree.”

“That's...I...” Crowley looks adorably confused. Aziraphale wants to kiss the look away. 

Aziraphale wants to kiss him. 

Kiss.

_Him. _

“Those guys back there?” Crowley goes on. Aziraphale barely hears the words. “They're bad guys, okay? Big time mobsters. You need to stay away from them. Far away. Do you hear me? Do you have a room?” Aziraphale doesn't answer. He can't form any words. “Angel?”

Aziraphale gives himself a metaphorical shake of the head. “Yes. I suppose I do. I mean, I haven't got one yet, but I could very easily do so.”

“Then do so.” Crowley smiles, dashing and debonair, and that's it. That, as the humans occasionally say, is “all she wrote.” Aziraphale is done for. “We'll go out later, yeah? I'll take you to see this really great show. The latest thing.”

Aziraphale never has any interest in any “latest thing.” “Yes,” he hears himself say. “That sounds wonderful.” 

“See you then.” Crowley's hand disappears from his elbow and claps him on the shoulder, transferring the burn. 

With an extreme degree of angelic patience, Aziraphale secures a room, only to languish in it for hours, accompanied by a frightful orange armchair, a white bed with a powder-blue coverlet, and his thoughts. 

Aziraphale has kissed humans before, of course, in every way imaginable. He's engaged in erotic activities with a dozen or so, ever since he and his dear friend the Earl of Wendover were caught up in a passionate moment while reading Mary Pix's “Inhumane Cardinal” aloud during a thunderstorm. John had a wonderful imagination after all. Aziraphale doesn't plan on ever telling Crowley that.

But none of it matters, because they were humans. They never saved his precious books just because they could. They didn't make him fizzy. They weren't Crowley.

When Crowley finally knocks on the door, Aziraphale is vibrating with so much pent-up emotion, he flings it open with unnecessary force. The doorknob bounces off a little rubber contraption attached to the opposite wall, apparently with this very scenario in mind. The cleverness of humans never ceases to amaze him.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You all right?”

He doesn't look any less wonderful than he did before. At once, Aziraphale is painfully aware that he didn't bother to bathe once he got off the aeroplane, or even miracle himself into a halfway decent state. Belatedly, he heads for the mirror.

Crowley trails after him. “Sorry about before,” he says. “You gave me a bit of a shock. And I don't want you anywhere near those guys.”

“We've dealt with scoundrels in the past." Aziraphale tries to comb his hair into some semblance of order, gives up, and instead uses a quick miracle to put himself right. _And I'd better not get any guff from upstairs about it_, he thinks, indignantly. _Not when Gabriel was the one who wanted me to leave England in the first place._

“Not like this. But forget about them.” The smile is back. Aziraphale feels weak. “Let's go. I've got something really great to show you.”

It's a bebop singer. Aziraphale knows that's not the word for it, but Crowley's fond exasperation is worth getting it wrong.

“It's called rock and roll, angel! It's going to change the world.” The first few rows of the theatre, comprised mostly of young women, certainly seem to think so. They scream adulation as the performer, one “Elvis Presley”, gyrates onstage. His movements are shocking by this century's standards, Aziraphale will give him that. But it doesn't make his tales of blue suede shoes and heartbreak hotels any more appealing. 

So Aziraphale doesn't look at Mr. Presley. Instead, he stares at Crowley. He can't believe it's taken him this long to notice just how handsome he is. His dashing profile. His hair, a fascinatingly unusual shade of red. Whenever Aziraphale sees it on somebody else, which is rare, he is immediately put in mind of his dear friend. His striking eyes, just visible behind the glasses, if you look from the right angle. Since the advent of sunglasses, Aziraphale is the only being Crowley trusts to see his eyes in their natural state. Knowing he has that trust, that Crowley feels that close to him, just adds another layer of attractiveness. 

Aziraphale is so occupied with staring, he doesn't notice the “concert”, to use the term loosely, has concluded until Crowley turns and says, “So? What do you think?”

_I think you're incredible._ “I think...I think my tastes have not yet caught up with modern music.” 

Crowley nudges Aziraphale's shoulder with his own, a casual gesture that shouldn't feel nearly as affectionate as it does. “Why am I not shocked? Come on, let's go get something to eat.” 

Aziraphale stands, but makes no move to leave. Fortunately, they're seated on the far end of a row. He's not forced to deal with casino patrons impatient to return to their gambling while he “screws his courage to the sticking place”, as Mr. Shakespeare would put it, and says, “I don't think I'm all that hungry, really.” A lie. He's starving, just not in the usual way. Well, in the usual way too, but he's prepared to overlook it this once. 

Crowley does a double take quite unlike anything Aziraphale has seen since silent films unfortunately went out of fashion. “What?” 

“I thought we might go back to my room instead,” Aziraphale suggests, in a voice he hopes is suggestive, if Crowley is amenable, and innocent if he's not. 

“What for?” 

Perhaps a little too innocent, then. “I'd like to catch up." 

“If you're sure that's what you want.” 

Aziraphale has never been more sure of what he wants. He's also never been less certain about having it. 

As they enter the room, Crowley throws himself on that truly hideous orange chair, kicks off his shoes and props his feet up on the bed. Aziraphale sits on the edge of the mattress. His natural instinct is to fold his hands in his lap, but that seems ridiculously prim, and not at all conducive to a seduction. He places them on the mattress instead, half-lounging in a position that neither feels nor, he expects, looks particularly alluring. He sits up straight and returns his hands to his lap. 

“I never,” he says, as Crowley takes off his glasses, “properly thanked you for retrieving my books.”

In one seamless movement, the glasses go back on. “You thanked me.” 

“But I don't think I truly expressed my appreciation. Those books were, ah, are very important to me. And you didn't have to save them.”

“Just a little demonic miracle, angel. No big deal.” 

“It was, in fact, quite a big deal. To me.” He looks at Crowley's stocking feet, beside him on the bed. “How are your poor feet?”

“No problem. Healed right up.”

Aziraphale coughs. “May I...May I see?”

“You want to...” Crowley's face turns red. “Ah, okay.” 

He leans forward, but Aziraphale gets there first. Carefully, slowly, he pulls off one of Crowley's socks, then the other. Elastic really is a fabulous invention, but he does rather miss the days when a gentleman wasn't fully dressed without his sock garters. Aziraphale himself still wears them, of course. 

It's been a few centuries since Aziraphale has seen Crowley's bare feet. They're feet. Apart from a couple of men—and it always seems to be men—Aziraphale has known over the years, nobody would find anything particularly erotic in them. But when Aziraphale trails one finger gently over the instep and Crowley shudders, the internal fizziness turns into a sonic boom. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasps. Aziraphale repeats the motion on the other foot, just to feel the sensation again. “What are you...”

The answer to that question, Aziraphale decides, would better be expressed with actions than with words. He leans forward and takes Crowley's tie in hand. He does it slowly, calmly. There's time for Crowley to back away, time for him to say, “Come on, let's get some dessert,” or something that will allow them to call all of this off before it starts, while still letting Aziraphale save face. Crowley would never want to embarrass him over this, he knows that. He wouldn't even try it if he didn't. 

Crowley doesn't mention dessert, or any other course. He doesn't say anything. He lets Aziraphale use his tie to pull him closer, closer, until their noses touch then, a moment later, their lips. 

It's chaste, dry. The kind of kiss they exchanged many times, back when it was a fashionable way to greet your friends, but it hasn't been in fashion for many decades. And it's not the way Aziraphale wants to kiss him now. “Crowley,” he murmurs, feeling Crowley's lips slide against his own. 

“Is that a question?” Crowley replies. Aziraphale nods. “Then fucking _yes_, angel.” Before Aziraphale can blink, Crowley's glasses are gone, tossed into the wilds of the hotel room, and he pushes Aziraphale down onto the bed, kissing him so wonderfully and with so much passion Aziraphale regrets not opening this particular line of inquiry years ago. 

Aziraphale could do this for hours. Days. Weeks. He could lie here on this overly soft hotel bed for the rest of eternity, he thinks, quite satisfied as long as he has Crowley kissing him, his tongue gentle and his lips firm. Then Crowley's nimble hands find Aziraphale's belt, and his snake tongue slips up to his ear. “You want more?” 

Greedy as always, Aziraphale wants it all. “Yes.” 

“Done it before?” The fingers tease, pulling up Aziraphale's shirt and slipping beneath the hem to slide across bare skin.

“Mmhmm.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Aziraphale hears a smile in Crowley's voice as he massages circles onto Aziraphale's stomach. He doesn't dip lower, but it doesn't matter. Aziraphale's Effort is hard regardless, straining against his trousers. “Anyone I know?”

“Wendover,” Aziraphale breathes, accidentally.

“What?” Crowley sits up abruptly, pulling the front of Aziraphale's shirt the rest of the way out of his trousers as he whips his hand away. “After everything I went through?”

“'Everything you went through'? You played a sea captain for all of ten minutes.”

“I travelled a long way to help you with that. I was in fucking _Burma_, angel.”

“Well, he didn't propose to me again.” Which had been the purpose of the charade. “And we only did it a few times.”

“A few!” 

“It was two hundred years ago, Crowley.” Aziraphale doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk about anything. “Are we going to...”

“Yes!” Crowley resumes his position, aggressively. “Of course we are. I need to show you I'm a better lay than the Earl of fucking Wendover.” 

He is. Aziraphale had a different genital configuration back then, so the comparison isn't exactly scientific, but Crowley is marvellous. His cock fits Aziraphale perfectly. Aziraphale doesn't know if that's by deliberate design, if he's adjusting his corporation to align with Aziraphale's, but just the thought he might be makes Aziraphale feel fonder than he ever thought possible.

With every stroke, Crowley hits just the right spot, sending waves of bliss rolling through Aziraphale's corporation. “Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale grasps at Crowley's shoulders, his legs locked around Crowley's body. “You're lovely.” His dirty talk obviously needs practice, but this seems to be enough to spur on Crowley even more. He moves faster, one hand on Aziraphale's cock and the other grasping Aziraphale's hand so hard it hurts. That little bit of pain, coupled with the sensation of Crowley inside and outside and all around him, pushes Aziraphale over the edge. He comes fitfully, spurting into Crowley's hand and his smooth, flat stomach. He barely catches his breath before Crowley follows with a groan, filling Aziraphale so deliciously he could almost cry. 

Crowley does. Tears leak from behind his screwed-shut eyes, and Aziraphale's heart, already at the tipping point, overflows like a burst dam. 

“Darling!” He pulls Crowley over him like a blanket, holding him close. 

“I'm fine,” Crowley snaps. He tries to pull away, but it's a weak attempt, and Aziraphale easily brings him back. 

“My dear. Look at me.” Crowley complies, his beautiful yellow eyes watery. Aziraphale searches for the perfect _bon mot_ for the occasion. “You were,” he says, at last, “much better than Wendover.” 

Crowley laughs. “Fuck, I love you.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale answers. “Me, too.”

***

Aziraphale rarely sleeps, and never dreams. He's rather shocked, therefore, to find himself in the middle of the Frontier casino with no idea how he arrived there. 

The last he remembers, he was lying in bed with Crowley. They'd made love again, and then again after that. Crowley's mouth, he'd proven, was nearly as talented as his cock, and judging by the look of ecstasy on Crowley's face when he came for the third time, Aziraphale's wasn't too shabby, either. 

Between the second and third rounds, they stopped for a truly transcendent experience known as “room service.” A gentleman in a hat almost as dear as those belonging to the ladies on the aeroplane brought in a tray of food ordered via the telephone, of all things, and left Aziraphale to eat it in peace. _Perhaps_, he thought, as he tucked into duck à l'orange and Veuve Clicqot in bed, _Las Vegas isn't all bad, after all._

“You wore me out, angel,” Crowley said, collapsing onto the mattress after his third orgasm and a final profiterole. With a wave of the hand to clean up the mess, of both the erotic and culinary varieties, he settled down in bed, his body pressed up against Aziraphale and his arm spread protectively over top. Aziraphale intended only to lie there, to be with Crowley while he slept, but clearly, Morpheus took him, too. 

_How fascinating_, Aziraphale thinks, looking at the images projected around him. His mind—his subconscious, as those clever scientific humans put it, although he doesn't know if it works the same way with him—has created a very interesting and detailed representation of a place he saw only briefly. As in life, a group of figures sits before the slot machines, endlessly pulling the levers as the wheels spin within. Looking more closely, Aziraphale sees that, rather than the humans who were really there, these are angels, Michael and Sandalphon and Uriel, dropping in coins over and over again. They don't look up, even as Aziraphale stands beside them. 

Somebody bumps him from behind. Aziraphale turns to see the lady in the gold dress, the one who dared touch Crowley. She transforms, abruptly and very unexpectedly, into a unicorn, galloping off as Aziraphale hears a voice say, “You don't look like no eye-tie to me.”

It's not the mannerless human tough Aziraphale met in reality. Instead, it's a demon. Aziraphale doesn't know it by name, doesn't even know if it's a real demon, but the lizard atop its head is something of a clue as to its nature. 

“No, he don't,” another figure agrees. This one is pale, with a shock of white hair and a cigar hanging out of its mouth. They aren't speaking to Aziraphale, but to someone they have crowded up against the roulette table, someone Aziraphale can't see. 

“He don't look like no demon, either.”

“Not if he fucks angels. That's no demon, that's a traitor. And you know what we do with traitors.”

“Guys,” a familiar voice breaks in. “Come on. It was just a temptation.” The men part, and Aziraphale sees him. Crowley's hands are up defensively. In the place of sunglasses, he has a blindfold over his eyes. Instead of the James Bond tuxedo, he's wearing, inexplicably, Rhinegrave breeches and sock garters without socks. Aziraphale can see his bare feet, marked up with angry red scars that aren't there in reality. “What, did you think it meant something?”

“It doesn't matter what we think.” Another demon appears. This one is enclosed in a thick cloud of buzzing flies. “It's what he thinks.”

“No, guys, come on. Please.” Crowley begs, as the casino begins to shake. The angels fly away, taking their slot machines with them as they leave through the suddenly open roof. The carpet splits and a furious red figure bursts up from the depths of hell. It has horns on its head and a guitar strapped to its chest.

“Crowley.” Its voice thunders, a sound loud and furious enough to cause the walls to shake. Chunks of red and gold-wallpapered plaster fall like rain, and Aziraphale lurches, trying to keep his balance. “You ain't nothing but a hound dog,” the voice roars, and Lucifer brings down the guitar, crushing Crowley beneath it.

Aziraphale's eyes pop open. His heart is racing, his bed linens as sweaty as if he'd inexplicably run a marathon then climbed into bed. _If that's dreaming, then the humans can ruddy well keep it._ Aziraphale shifts, untangling himself from the sheets that have entrapped him. But, he thinks, as his heart slows and he regains his composure, it wasn't wrong.

Crowley is there beside him, lying on his back. He has one hand out, grasping Aziraphale's arm even in sleep. Outside, traffic passes, the lights streaming rhythmically through the thin curtains.

This is a bad decision. Aziraphale isn't known for making good ones, particularly, but this one is spectacularly terrible. Not for him. Gabriel doesn't understand sex in the slightest. None of the angels do. It's dangerous for Aziraphale to make love with Crowley, but it's no more dangerous than it is for them to meet clandestinely in the park, and they've been doing that for centuries. Hell is different. Hell _knows_ what it means. They must. And if they saw what just happened, if they knew what he and Crowley had done with each other...there would be no turning back from that. They would come after Crowley, and he and Crowley would have to fight back, and they would almost certainly lose. 

Aziraphale's not ready for that. Crowley is so sweet. Aziraphale loves him, as a friend, as a lover. But he isn't brave enough—isn't selfish enough—to put him, to put _both_ of them, in that kind of danger. Not right now. It's too much, it's too soon, it's too fast.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Crowley, Aziraphale slips out of bed. There's a notepad on the table beside the telephone.  
_Thanks_, he writes, the cheap biro scratching into the notepaper. He thinks about adding, _Sorry_, but doesn't. 

It's the middle of the night, but Las Vegas is as alive as if it were midday. Squinting against the aggressive brightness of the neon lights, Aziraphale gets into a waiting cab and says, “Airport, please.” He doesn't look back. He can't. 

It's only a few hours later, as he boards the aeroplane headed for New York and then on to London, that he realizes he left his suitcase in the hotel.


	4. Agape

"Agape is used in ancient texts to denote feelings for one's children and the feelings for a spouse...Agape is used by Christians to express the unconditional love of God for his children."- [Greek words for love ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_words_for_love)

South Downs, England, The Future

“All I'm saying is, I am quite certain I specifically asked for Gorgonzola. Darling.” Aziraphale adds the endearment between clenched teeth, to maintain some semblance of cordiality. He's not sure why. It's not like Crowley deserves any. 

“And all I'm saying is, I bought a chunk of mouldy cheese, like you asked for. What the fuck's the difference?” 

Aziraphale gasps. He can't have heard correctly. There is no possible way those words would have passed Crowley's lips. Aziraphale breathes deeply, in and out, and replies, with remarkable, nay heroic, civility. “I don't know. What's the difference between a Bentley and a...” He searches his mind for another type of car. He comes up blank. He lands on, “Motorized scooter?” instead, which, judging from the look on Crowley's face, hits the mark nicely. 

“It's not a _motorized scooter_. It's Roquefort. Even I've heard of bloody Roquefort, angel.” 

“Yes. We all have. That's quite beside the point. The recipe I want to make calls for Gorgonzola, and that's what I asked you to get.” 

“I'm finished with this stupid argument.” Crowley throws himself onto the settee with his usual over-dramatic flair, and picks up one of Aziraphale's books from the side table. Pure theatrics, of course. Aziraphale can't remember Crowley ever actually reading anything that wasn't a text message. “And I'm not going back to the shop.”

“Then how am I supposed to make my spaghetti Gorgonzola?” 

“Use the Roquefort. Or go and get what you want for yourself. You've got a bike.” 

Aziraphale does, in fact, have a bicycle. Said bicycle—aquamarine in colour, with a beautiful white basket on the front—was in residence in the shed when he and Crowley took possession of their cottage. He was strictly rationing his use of miracles these days, but Aziraphale used one to learn how to ride it, visions of long, leisurely rambles across the picturesque chalk hills dancing in his head. He went out once, caught his wheel on a stone, fell into a ditch, and never tried again. 

But it's fine. If Crowley has decided to be an absolute bastard about this, then Aziraphale will take matters into his own hands. “Don't expect to eat any,” he warns Crowley, as he heads for the door. 

“I'll try to contain my disappointment.” 

“And don't expect to make love tonight. Or possibly ever again.” Aziraphale slams the front door. “Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Wilson.” He smiles at his elderly neighbour, out clipping her topiary bush into what appears to be a seahorse, and goes around to the shed to retrieve the bicycle. 

Fuelled by rage and a suddenly intense longing for spaghetti Gorgonzola, Aziraphale pedals faster and more determinedly than ever. So fast and so determinedly, in fact, that he's in the middle of the woods before he realizes he has no idea where he is.

_This is all bloody Crowley's fault._ He stops the bike on the deserted roadway, surrounded by trees tall enough to all but block out the sunlight. _If he wasn't such an unreasonable brute, this would have been a very easy problem to solve._ Now, Aziraphale is going to die out here—or discorporate, which is probably the same thing these days—in the eerie half-light, cold and alone. Tears prick at Aziraphale's eyes. He blinks them back stoically. _It was always meant to be thus_, he thinks. _You pledge yourself to someone, you_ marry_ them for goodness' sake, but you cannot rely on them. __At the heart of it, we are all alone._

But Aziraphale, as a onetime acquaintance of his put it, will “not go gently into that good night.” He'll go out fighting. And Crowley will feel even more guilty when he finds Aziraphale's corpse, still bicycling resolutely towards a wedge of Gorgonzola Crowley could so have easily brought home, if only he bloody listened once in a while. Aziraphale climbs back on the seat and pushes the pedals. He makes it only a few feet before the wheel catches on the edge of the road and he tumbles, arse over teakettle as some would inelegantly put it, into the woods. 

It hurts Aziraphale's arm, his leg, and his pride. _I might as well die here after all_, he thinks, making no attempt to remove the bike from atop him. _There's no point in carrying on._ Ignoring his pain, and the terrible damage this must be doing to his clothes, he lets his eyes slide shut, ready to drift away. Immediately, he is assaulted by a brilliant, blinding light. 

“Aziraphale? Are you there?” 

Aziraphale hasn't heard that voice in years. Decades. He flings away the bike with perhaps unnecessary force, sending it hurtling into the woods, and struggles to his feet. “Metatron?”

“Hold for God, please.” 

“What? I...”

And there it is. The most beautiful sound in all of Creation. A voice that is heard not by Aziraphale's ears, but by his soul. A voice that knows nothing of age, or of gender, or of language. A voice that makes tears leak from Aziraphale's eyes, not from pique or from pain but from pure, unmatched, unmatchable joy. Unbidden, his wings unfurl, stretching into the trees around him, shaking the branches and loosening the leaves. “Aziraphale?” The voice says. Aziraphale falls to his knees. “I hear you were trying to reach me.” 

Aziraphale isn't worthy to answer. He must. “That was...many years ago, ah...” He remembers all the names they called Her in Heaven, but not one will move from his brain to his lips. Instead, he utters the word that sounds the most natural: “Mother.” 

“Yes. Sorry about that. I've had a lot on my plate.” A hesitation. “Was it about the Armageddon thing? Seems like you sorted it out all right.” 

_Was that approval of what they had done? Was it what She had wanted?_ “We, we, we, ah, we did our best.” 

“And,” God goes on. “I hear you got married. Is that right?” 

Aziraphale bites his lip. There's no sense in lying to Her, of all beings. “Yes.”

“Congratulations. I'll have Metatron organize some sort of wedding gift. I'm not sure what's appropriate for these things...Housewares of some type? Have you got a blender?” _Crowley will never believe this_, Aziraphale thinks. _Never._ “You are living on Earth now, is that right? Permanently?” 

Aziraphale wipes at the tears running down his cheeks. “I don't know how long it will be.”

“But you like it there?” 

“I love it.” He really does, for so many reasons. So does Crowley. They hope they can spend the rest of eternity in peace, without ever having to repeat what they did several decades ago, but they're also realistic. 

“All right, then. If you ever wish to return to Heaven, let me know.” 

The tears flow anew. Of course She would be infinitely accepting, boundlessly forgiving. “Mother, I don't think Gabriel...”

“Archangel Gabriel is my obedient servant,” God interrupts. “He can be overzealous.” 

“Yes.” That is certainly one word for it. Not the one Aziraphale would have chosen. 

“If you want to return,” God repeats, “I'm certain we can work something out.”

Aziraphale should grovel thanks that She would say it, that the opportunity would be in any way presented to him. A large part of him wants to. Another part, smaller but vocal, has spent the last six thousand years with Crowley. “I appreciate that, Mother, really. It's awfully kind of you to suggest it. But I could never separate myself from my spouse.” 

There. He's said it. The words are out there, and he can't take them back. Aziraphale squares his shoulders, ruffling his feathers, and waits. If She smites him for such rudeness, his one regret is that Crowley won't ever know about this, won't know the extent to which Aziraphale truly loves him, blue cheese be damned. 

God doesn't smite him. Instead, She replies, “I would never expect you to.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “I'm not...maybe You aren't...are You quite sure You...”

“I know who your spouse is, Aziraphale.” God sounds indulgent, almost amused, a loving parent humouring a floundering child. “Better than you do. Better than he does. I loved him a great deal. But not, I suspect, as much as you love each other.” Aziraphale is speechless. “Anyway, I must dash. Nice chatting to you. Do keep in touch.” 

She's gone. Aziraphale collapses like a puppet with cut strings, his wings stowed away once more. He's not sure how long he lies on the ground. It doesn't feel like more than a minute or two before he hears a car driving far too fast on the roadway beside him, followed by the squeal of brakes and the clamour of hurried footsteps. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is there. “Oh, fuck.” His arms go around Aziraphale, his hand touching and healing his damaged arm, ribs, leg. Injuries Aziraphale had completely forgotten about. Injuries that are entirely inconsequential. 

“Darling.” Aziraphale looks at him. There's panic on Crowley's face, but Aziraphale has never been more calm. He reaches out, gentle and reassuring. “It's all right, Crowley.”

“I should have known you didn't know the bloody way.” He glances around. “Where's the bike?”

“It doesn't matter.” It is, in fact, deep in the forest, lying with a sapling between its front spokes. Over the course of the next few decades, the tree will grow up around it, creating a minor tourist attraction. “None of that matters, Crowley.” He has to share the good news. He takes Crowley's hand between his. “Crowley, She spoke to me.” 

“Mrs. Wilson? Me, too. I told her to mind her own fucking business. I didn't say fucking. I know you don't like me to swear at her.” 

“No. Her.” Aziraphale smiles. “God.” 

Crowley says nothing. _Of course _, Aziraphale thinks. He can barely get his head around it himself. Finally, Crowley opens his mouth. Aziraphale clasps his hand harder, and prepares to listen to whatever wisdom his heart's delight, the love of his life, has to impart. “I should have known it. You're bloody concussed,” Crowley says. “Here, take these.” He pulls off his sunglasses and sticks them onto Aziraphale's face. “That's what you do for concussion, right? Protect the eyes? Do you need an ice pack? Heating pad? What do I do here, angel?” 

“You don't need to do anything.” Aziraphale pulls off the glasses and hands them back. “It was Her, Crowley. It really was.” _And you're not unforgivable. You never were._

Aziraphale doesn't say that. He knows Crowley very well, and he knows when it's better to keep his mouth shut. He lets Crowley help him to the car, leaning on him a little more than is strictly necessary. Crowley does so like to feel useful. 

“Let's go get your Gorgonzola,” Crowley says, as he gets into the driver's seat. 

“The Roquefort will be fine.” Aziraphale folds his hands on his lap. Crowley's healing was lovely, and he did try his best, but he is a demon, not an angel. Azirphale is still sore, his leg and arm aching. _I need a nice hot bath _, Aziraphale determines._ And an even nicer glass of wine. _

“Are you fucking joking? At this point, we're getting the blessed Gorgonzola.”

Aziraphale doesn't argue. Instead, he leans over to kiss Crowley's cheek. “My hero,” he says. Even after all this time, Crowley blushes. 

When they arrive home, back at their little cottage, Aziraphale doesn't get out of the car right away. He can't. Looking at the building in front of him, he feels suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. 

This is their house, but it won't last forever. One day, it will crumble to dust like so much they've seen, but it won't matter, because it's not their _home._ That's wherever they choose to make it, wherever they are together. It's been that way for a very long time. As long as they've known each other. 

“Are you sure you're okay?” Crowley asks, in a voice saturated with worry, opening Aziraphale's door for him. Aziraphale takes his arm again, cradling the Gorgonzola like an infant. Glancing over, Aziraphale sees that Mrs. Wilson's topiary is not a seahorse, after all, but a wall-eyed unicorn with a crooked horn. It hits him in a bolt from the Heavens. “Do you remember the tapestries you once showed me in Paris, darling? De la Rochefoucould's bedroom?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I know how the unicorn felt in the last panel.” Of course he was happy. He wasn't trapped, or imprisoned by an enemy, as it first appeared. He was safe. Protected. Loved. Just what he'd always wanted to be. 

“Right. Sure. Totally get it, angel.” He doesn't. Aziraphale will have to explain, but not now. Now, Crowley adds, “I was always getting my heart broken back then, wasn't I? There was this one guy, fucked like a dream in a Las Vegas hotel and didn't speak to me for eleven years afterwards...”

“He did eventually apologize, darling.”.

“Yeah." Crowley sighs. "Sorry about the cheese. It was a mistake, but I didn't have to be such a dick about it." 

Rather than answer, Aziraphale pulls him close and kisses him, on and on, the way he first saw Eve and Adam kiss in the garden. A kiss full of promise, of devotion, and of every kind of love imaginable, in Heaven or on Earth. 

Mrs. Wilson bangs censoriously on her window. Aziraphale pretends he can't hear her, and deliberately places a hand on Crowley's backside.


End file.
